Avatar Of The Gods: Arcanum
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Post 'Mummy 2'.Imhotep is safely consigned to the underworld, carefully watched by the Med-Jai. But the disgraced priest of the pharaoh is not the only supernatural being to tread the sands. The Gods of ancient times sometimes choose to make themselves kn
1. Cairo

Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Arcanum  
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark   
Teaser: Post 'The Mummy Returns'. Imhotep is safely consigned to the underworld, carefully watched by the Med-Jai. But the disgraced priest of the pharaoh is not the only supernatural being to tread the sands. The Gods of ancient times sometimes choose to make themselves known.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Universal Pictures. Isis, Queen among Goddesses, belongs to herself.

Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.   
Notes: I'm not very well versed in Bedouin culture or the Arabic language, so bear with me! But I have done some research! I've researched Egyptian mythology & taken the elements that appeal, so no mailing me with "But that isn't right!" I thought I'd do a little story starring the scrumptious Ardeth Bey – a character that seems to be somewhat overlooked in fanfic in favour of Evelyn & Rick O'Connell. Text in _italics_ indicates thought. Italic text in apostrophes _'italic'_ indicates telepathic communication. **Apologies if I make mistakes with definitions of traditional garments. If anyone spots a mistake, let me know! ***The definitions list will grow, so check back often!*

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Definitions:

Afreet: a demon in Arabian mythology. 

Badawi: Bedouin – literally 'dwellers in the desert'. 

Burnous: an Arab or Moorish hooded cloak 

Djellaba: a loose hooded woollen cloak worn or as worn by Arab men. 

Djinn: (in Muslim mythology) an intelligent being lower than the angels, able to appear in human and animal forms, and having power over people. 

Dybuk: (Hebrew) a demon or literally, a possession by a demon. 

Effendi: a man of education or standing in eastern Mediterranean or Arab countries. Or a former title of respect or courtesy in Turkey. 

Gali Gali men: Egyptian street magicians whose most famous trick is the 3 balls & cups illusion. 

Hijab: woman's veil covering the head and lower face. 

Isis Knot: an amulet, usually wooden, used for protection. 

Jilbab: a long coat worn by Muslim men. 

Khaliji: long woman's dress/over garment.

Kuffiyeh: head gear.

Mawlá (Arabic variation of Turkish 'mullah'): a Muslim learned in Islamic theology and sacred law. 

Mawlana: our master. 

Rosetta Stone: a key to previously unattainable understanding. A stone found near Rosetta in Egypt, with a trilingual inscription of the 2nd century BC in hieroglyphic and demotic Egyptian, and Greek, important in the deciphering of hieroglyphs. 

Salaam: the salutation 'Peace'. An obeisance, with or without the salutation, often consisting of a low bow of the head and body with the right palm on the forehead. 

Sayadi: leader, chieftan. Title of respect and courtesy.

Sekhet-Hetepet: According to the Osiris cults the Fields of Peace was the desired location of the deceased. They would join with their god, Osiris and become a khu, drink, plow, reap, fight, make love, never be in a state of servitude and always be in a position of authority.

Shalwar kameez: long overgarment, often with wide trousers (can be loose or fitted, male or female in style). 

Simsimiyya: 5 stringed Bedouin lyre. 

Súk: market or bazaar. 

Thobe: long, loose woman's robe, usually embroidered. 

Tiraz: highly valued textiles made with linen or silk, very decorative, usually given as gifts in the form of robes of honour or wall hangings. Tiraz is the name of the workshop and the textile itself.

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Names:

Anubis: god of the dead/embalming.

Bast: lion or protective goddess. 

Beby: 'the devourer'. A monster who ate the souls not judged worthy to enter the afterlife.

Isetnofret: Isis is beautiful. 

Horus: god of the sky and protector of Egypt. Son of Isis and Osiris. 

Isis: 'the powerful one'. Goddess of magic (& LOTS of other things) Most important goddess in Egyptian pantheon. 

Khepri: morning sun. 

Layla: born at night. 

Osiris: god of the underworld and fertility/rebirth. Brother-husband of Isis. 

Ra: god of the sun. Great grandfather to Isis, Osiris and Set. 

Runihura: destroyer. 

Set (or Seth): god of chaos. Brother of Isis and Osiris. 

Sebak: companion of Set.

*

****

Cairo, 1934

"Fresh! Fresh today! Plump and juicy, ready for the pot!" A wrinkled nut-brown hand cupped to his mouth, the chicken seller bellowed his sales pitch, battered red fez bouncing atop his balding crown as he poked the nervous birds cooped in a wooden cage at his feet.

Second prayers for the day had not long finished and the súk was rapidly filling with busy merchants and shoppers. Men brushed the dust of their worship from their jibba or djellaba that protected them from the fierce heat of the early afternoon sun. Women, their faces modestly covered, carried baskets made from Nile rushes on their heads. The constant multilingual babble of the marketplace ebbed and flowed like the great river; Arabic, French, an undercurrent of German and the odd trickle of English. Behind a bread stall, partially obscured by untidily arranged flat wheaten loaves, a young boy plucked experimentally at his father's simsimiyya. 

Ardeth Bey stepped out from the cool, fragrant interior of a spice shop, narrowing his inky black eyes against the sudden white glare of the sun. At once, the singular odour of the marketplace assaulted him, dusty dry crumbling brick, gathered hide and excrement of cattle, a drifting tang of blood from a nearby butchers and the musk of hot, working people. Pressing the small, brown paper-wrapped parcel of cardamom to his nose, he inhaled the scent before moving out into the throngs. As he passed, the street vendors touted their wares.

"Salaam! Sir, your boots seem worn! Mine are the finest tooled leather!"

"Effendi! A silk shawl for your wife! Your sister?! Your mother?!"

Ignoring the enthusiastic shouts without compunction, knowing that the slightest hint of passing interest would cause them to swoop like hungry vultures, Ardeth made his way across the marketplace to where his horse was tethered. Patting the animal's warm flank in greeting, he packed his few purchases into the well-used saddlebag. As he did so, his black djellaba moved, revealing a naked scimitar secured at his waist through a tightly bound sash. Two heavy, serviceable handguns lay in holsters attached to a leather harness bandoleer criss-crossing his torso. The stallion whickered happily, recognising his master.

"Mawlá!" a young voice hissed. "May the peace of God be upon you!"

Ardeth looked around to see an earnest youth of about seventeen, swathed in the desert-dusty black of the Med-Jai. His facial tattoos were so fresh, they still had a thin crusty scab across them. He executed a swift salaam, touching hand to brow, lips and heart. 

"And to you, my friend," the Med-Jai leader returned, seeing a gleam of sweat on the young man's forehead. "What has you running like an Englishman in the afternoon heat?"

A brief, gleaming smile flickered across the lad's swarthy features, teeth startlingly white against his face. Like most Bedouin, he found foreigners' insistence on wandering around during the hottest part of the day highly amusing. 

"There is a woman, Mawlana…," he began. "I have never seen one like her before."

"Ah," Ardeth suppressed the smile that threatened to form. "Perhaps you should speak to your father."

The young man reddened somewhat and shook his head vehemently, mopping his brow on his sleeve before continuing to speak.

"No, it is not like that. She is foreign – white, she is alone, but dresses as we do. I have seen her."

Dark eyes shining excitedly, he pointed across the bustling súk towards a side road containing antique stores, bazaars and bookshops that catered for visiting academics and local scribes alike.

"Rich Americans are fond of playing the native, it amuses them," Ardeth shrugged. "But it is unwise for women to wander alone here – find her and guide her back to her hotel."

Shaking his head again, the lad coloured even more, embarrassed at once again having to elaborate further.

"My English is not good enough," he admitted. "But she isn't American – she speaks Arabic… and the ancient Coptic tongue. She is searching for something – I saw her go into Azim Fahrer's shop. She ignored all the 'relics' set out for tourists and went straight to the back where he keeps the real pieces. I swear, the fat old swindler turned the colour of curdled milk!"

Seeing a curious mixture of bemusement and awe animating the young man's sun-browned features, Ardeth Bey stroked his horse's neck reflectively. The only white woman he knew who spoke the ancient tongue was Evelyn O'Connell, and she had more sense than to walk Cairo's unpredictable streets alone. Evelyn was highly unlikely to travel without her former legionnaire husband, Rick, and his arrival would have been immediately noted and reported by observant Med-Jai eyes. Where the O'Connells went, trouble was seldom far behind. Smiling faintly as he recalled Rick's wisecracking American machismo and Evie's polite English charm that masked a sharp, intelligent mind, Ardeth found his interest was piqued.

"Curdled milk?" he echoed with a slight quirk of an eyebrow. "Well, let us see what has Azim so worried."

"Maybe she could see his 'artefacts' are worthless chunks of stone carved last week by one-eyed masons," the junior Med-Jai joked, trotting after his master as he set off at a brisk walk. 

Pausing to allow a huffing train of three camels bearing loads of brocade silk and earthenware past, the two black-clad Bedouin slipped into the side street. The loud hawking of wares, the tones unmistakable whatever the language, decreased to a muted background hum as they trod the warm sandy paving. Blocked by the rise of rough yellowish walls, many of which had stood for centuries, edges worn by wind-lashed sands from the desert, the sky was a motionless azure fudge. Mischievous laughter suddenly rang out and a group of three or more small boys stampeded past, white jilbab flapping around their ankles as they chased each other. 

Turning a corner into a modest square of shops, the doorways hung with multicoloured beaded curtains to allow in the air and keep out biting flies, the Med-Jai paused. The crowds here were noticeably thinner and of international stock. Elegantly rumpled from the unaccustomed heat, an English couple in khaki emerged from a coffee shop, the woman exclaiming with delight as the playing children ran rings around her. Scanning the sun-faded signs hung above the doorways, Ardeth spotted 'antiquities and curiosities' scrawled in spidery Arabic and motioned his young scout to follow him. 

As the clatter of beads heralded their entrance, a short, rotund man wearing a crimson fez several sizes too large for him came barrelling out from the back room. Waving his podgy hands in front of him, Azim Fahrer's eyes bulged like skinned grapes.

"No, no! I am closed, closed for business!" he squealed, first in English, then in Arabic, flapping his hands in a shooing motion. "Come back tomorrow!"

The Med-Jai exchanged silent glances. Ardeth studied the older man's demeanour, noting his distracted hand wringing and nervously darting eyes. Fahrer wiped his hands on the front of his red-striped shalwar kameeze and scowled hotly as he realised the visitors were not leaving. Sandalled feet slapping at the tiled floor, he took three paces forward, grimacing as he belatedly identified them as Med-Jai.

"Please," he entreated, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Effendi, whatever it is – come back tomorrow. I have a customer waiting for me… an _important_ customer."

Known as a rogue and violator of tombs, Azim Fahrer was happy to pillage for the sacred and valuable to line his pockets with foreign money. A tough, street-wise entrepreneur, he was happier still to sell fakes for vast profit to ignorant Europeans. He openly scoffed at the Med-Jai and their holy duty, though was circumspect enough not to do so to their faces. Undeterred by old legends of the afreet said to guard tombs, he had made several attempts to find Hamunaptra, and was always sent on his way by the vigilant Med-Jai who watched the hidden City of the Dead. Now, he was afraid, and visibly so. Intrigued, Ardeth spread his hands disarmingly.

"Salaam, Mr Fahrer… It seems you need the peace of Allah more than I."

"Don't mock me, Med-Jai!" the fat antiques dealer snapped, casting glances over his shoulder towards the back room as if mindful of listening ears. "I have neither time nor patience for your double-talk. Please leave – now."

Placing a restraining hand on his companion's shoulder as he bristled at the disrespect and reached for his sword, Ardeth looked past Fahrer to the heavy mahogany bead curtain partitioning off the back room. Untouched by natural light, all he could see through the doorway were dim shapes sketched in charcoal shadow. A sudden, slight movement suggested the room was occupied by more than stolen relics. For the briefest fraction of a moment, there came a flash of white gold, like two feline eyes caught in lamplight. 

"Who is in the back room?" Ardeth asked softly, politely. 

Azim paled to a sickly beige, but his chin came up defiantly. He thrust out his corpulent belly, arms crossed over his chest like a materialising djinn.

"My customer. She is waiting, so if you will excuse me," he turned to go, only to find Ardeth stepped into his path.

"She?" he repeated, jet eyes sharpening. "A white woman who speaks perfect Arabic and knows the old tongue?"

Fahrer began to tremble. It began in the lower regions of his vast abdomen, travelling steadily upwards until it reached the rounded plateau of his shoulders and jowled chin. 

"Please, effendi, don't offend her… she will do _things_ to me if I displease her!" he whispered pleadingly.

His unease was infectious. The scout shifted his weight back into a defensive position, firmly grasping his sword hilt. He would not act until ordered to, but saw no harm in a ready hand.

"What makes you think that?" Ardeth questioned, peering into the gloom once more. There was no repeat of the unearthly glow. "She has made threats?"

"No," Azim almost wailed. "But I know she can – she has power. She _knows_ things… please, just go!"

Palpably fearful, sweat broke out on his brow and stood shaking like a water-filled goatskin. The back room was unnaturally still, the play of light and shadow through the bead curtain wiped away. A buried instinct telling him they had scant time to gain information, Ardeth turned to the antiques dealer.

"What does she want, Mr Fahrer?" he said, voice low and commanding. "You know what 'things' fall under the care of the Med-Jai, even if you disbelieve. And something tells me you have rediscovered your faith."

Azim paused and looked wildly between the back room and the two Med-Jai, wringing his hands like Pilate. He heaved a great, shuddering sigh.

"I can't tell you!" he said loudly, then hurried forward and lowered his voice to a sibilant whisper. "She wants to know if the tomb of Isetnofret has been plundered in the last twenty years, and she wants the Book of the Dead from the Hamunaptran Temple of Isis. All sorts of things she wants – all relics of the goddess."

Ardeth frowned, puzzled. Isetnofret had been a High Priestess of an unknown goddess some three thousand years ago. Her tomb had been carefully desecrated to remove all marks of the deity she worshipped, but nothing had been stolen. The only officially recognized Temple of Isis stood at Philae in upper Egypt, an island in the Nile. There was another in Hamunaptra, near to the central citadel, but had no great secrets that the Med-Jai had been able to discover. It had been plundered some thousand years ago during civil war, whatever arcane artefacts it held lost to time. As leader of the holy warriors, Ardeth Bey knew that the City of the Dead did not give up its mysteries easily. Nobody knew exactly what was contained within Hamunaptra's antediluvian boundaries, or what slept beneath the shifting sands waiting to be awakened. 

"Mawlana!" the young scout cried out, eyes wide.

The bead curtain blew outwards, the oiled strings snapping, scattering glistening mahogany spheres that bounced and clattered on the hard tiled floor. Azim gave a stricken wail and prostrated himself, hands covering his head. A blurred, self-contained column of silvery wind streaked from the back room and through the musty shop, bowling the Med-Jai over like wooden dolls. Just outside the doorway, bleached by the afternoon sun, it coalesced into a slender figure in a billowing black khaliji and djellaba, the hood pulled up. In a whirl of raven black material and running feet, she was gone.

Leaving the crying, protesting Fahrer where he lay, Ardeth leapt to his feet and gave chase, closely followed by his scout. Bursting out into the sunlight, startling many people, Ardeth spotted the black-clad figure turning into an alleyway he knew was a dead end. Snatching his trusted Browning from his bandoleer, he cocked it as he ran. Skidding around the corner, raising clouds of ochre dust in their wake, the Med-Jai came to a halt at a reasonable distance. She stood with her back to them, feet braced apart at hip distance, shoulders relaxed, apparently waiting. Raising a cautionary finger to his companion, Ardeth took aim, finger poised at the trigger. 

Abruptly, she turned around, lower face concealed. A polished ebony Isis Knot hung from a gold twisted cord at her throat, swinging gently as she breathed. Her skin tone was clearly white, almost translucently so, unblemished by the heat that brought most fair-skinned visitors out in unsightly red blotches. Framed by dark, delicately arched brows, her clear sea green eyes shone like polished agate as she brought up her hand. As she did so, her sleeve fell back to reveal a tattoo on the inside of her left wrist. Described in the same dense black as his own markings, Ardeth stared as he saw the stylised cow horns bearing the sun disk that symbolised the goddess Isis. The hieroglyphs were contained within an oval cartouche, something that usually represented the name and titles of a pharaoh, or deity. 

Seeing the tattoo, the young scout touched a finger to his own fresh inking and swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. The anonymous woman did not speak, she merely splayed her fingers before her in warning. Gaze sliding right to focus on Ardeth, her cool green eyes tracked across the glyphs on his brow and cheeks with interest. Feeling the fine hair on the back on his neck prickle at the sensation of intense scrutiny, he held his breath, knowing they could not stretch out the confrontation indefinitely. Firmly quashing his relief as her attention moved to the youth at his side, he saw her eyes wink a shocking tawny gold in the rich umber shadow cast by the alley walls. Letting out an exclamation, the scout involuntarily pulled the trigger on his low-calibre pistol.

Her wrist turned, long fingers curling in an elegant flourish, and the atmosphere thickened to the consistency of treacle. The bullet slowed, blue traceries of disturbed air streaming in its wake, and soundlessly exploded into a swarm of jewel-winged moths that spiralled upwards and away into the blue. With another gesture, she bent their gun barrels, the metal emitting basso profundo groans as it crumpled like papyrus. She chuckled quietly, sounding pleased, as if an expectation had been fulfilled.

"Med-Jai," she said, tonal intonation flawless.

With a respectful dip of her head, her form blurred into shrieking wind and she disappeared, leaving a diminishing column of falling dust motes. Ardeth Bey looked at the twisted ruin of tortured metal that had been his gun and at his scout's pale face.

"Summon the Elders," he ordered. "We have much to discuss."

*


	2. The Tomb Of Isetnofret

*

*

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4 Days Later, the Tomb of Isetnofret

Gathering his djellaba around him, seeking to keep out the frigid cold of the desert night, Ardeth shivered slightly and held his hands out to the small fire. Fortified by thick, bitter coffee, flat bread and a generous ration of dried meat, he had watched the tomb of Isetnofret since nightfall, relieving the previous watch. A life-long desert-dweller, he was well accustomed to the contrasts in temperature between day and night. Tonight, however, was colder than usual. Concealed in a large natural hollow in a dune, he could see the rectangular flank of the tomb, a slice of pitch black against the chilly blue greyness of the sand. 

Lured by the warmth, a small scorpion scuttled towards the crackling fire, pincers held aloft, shiny carapace dotted with flecks of sand. Unconcerned, Bey flicked it away with the tip of a stick, watching as it skittered off into the darkness. Following the meeting with the Council of Elders, the decision was made to watch the tomb, and the temple at Hamunaptra, should the mysterious woman decide to seek artefacts. There was concern she was seeking magical objects like the golden bracelet of the Scorpion King that had roused the jackal army of Anubis. Remembering the relentless howling, cackling jackal-headed monstrosities tearing across the sands, Ardeth flinched. That bloody confrontation had cost the lives of hundreds of Med-Jai. 

During the twilight of the Egyptian dynasties, Isis was a benevolent goddess, taking on the maternal, protective attributes of Hathor and Bast. Earlier in prehistory, she was the goddess of vengeance, punishing Set for his dismemberment of her brother-husband, Osiris. All versions of mythology agreed that she was goddess of sorcery and magic, queen of the heavenly pantheon. 

__

Woman or dead thing mimicking life, she has power, Ardeth thought sourly. _And she bears the marks of Isis, most powerful of the goddesses – she could seek to rouse the Creature or some other nameless evil… But she did not kill us. She could have, but did not… why?_

Mulling over the possible reasons, the leader of the Med-Jai frowned, dark brows dipping over the bridge of his nose. In his experience, most preternatural beings that stalked the sands had a propensity for slaying anyone whom deliberately or inadvertently crossed their path. Every few years, an unseasoned or careless Med-Jai fell victim to the whispering spirits that inhabited the halls and gullies of Hamunaptra, lured into the clutches of a tomb-bound afreet or over a ledge into nothingness. Ardeth frowned again, recalling his own encounter with a vicious serpent afreet as a youth. He had not really believed his father's tales until that point. It was a mistake he had not made since, a silver crescent-shaped scar across his lower back serving as an indelible reminder. Despite himself, he smiled a little.

__

I was more afraid of what my father would do when he discovered I'd been wandering where I should not, he thought wryly, with an inner chuckle. _Never mind the week long fever from the afreet's claw wounds._

Adding a few more sticks of kindling to the fire, watching as the orange flames danced in the chill breeze, he shifted position. A quiet snoring reached his ears and he realised the young scout, Uthman, had fallen asleep. Uthman had volunteered for watch duty, and to the surprise of many experienced Med-Jai, was selected for the job. Ardeth believed the boy to have promise. Picking up the scout's rifle, he prodded him hard in the ankle with the butt. With a startled snort, he woke, spitting out the loose end of his turban that had fallen into his open mouth. 

"You will see nothing if you sleep, my friend," the voice of his leader, filled with mild reprove, said from across the fire.

"Yes, Mawlana," he muttered obediently, knuckling his eyes and inwardly cursing his rebellious body for its overwhelming need to sleep. 

Bey gave his customary slight smile and warmed his hands over the fire as Uthman groaned softly and stretched the kinks out of his back. 

"Staying awake is a skill you learn with time – and many pokes in the ribs," he observed, black eyes twinkling.

The young scout grinned self-consciously and stifled a yawn with a hastily upraised hand. Turning his attention to the silent hulk of the tomb, he watched the night wind sweep and swirl curls of fine, dry sand, creating an ankle-deep mist. A column of seething wind appeared at the broken door of the tomb, a rough cone of slashing black disturbed air and flying sand. At first, Ardeth paid it no attention, as dust storms of varying proportions were common. When it gathered into a tall, slender figure in dark Bedouin dress, moonlight playing mercury fingers across the silhouette, he stiffened.

"Get your rifle," he ordered softly, taking up an unlit tallow-soaked brand. "And follow me – our white lady has graced us with her presence."

Silently, the Med-Jai crept across the cool sand, staying low, following the lazy contours of the dune as they approached the desecrated tomb. With a snap of her fingers, the cloaked woman produced a globe of fey light that cast glittering eggshell blue beams. Cupping it in her palm like a child's ball, she held it above her head to light her way. A gradually diminishing cerulean luminance at the doorway denoted her progress deeper into the tomb, making it seem like a peculiar jack-o'-lantern. Pressing themselves against the grainy buff stonework either side of the door, the Med-Jai waited a few moments. Taking an engraved silver lighter from his belt pouch, a gift from Rick O'Connell, Ardeth lit the brand. The flame puffed and snapped into life as it greedily consumed the greasy tallow, casting wavering carmine shadows across their faces.

Nodding to his companion, who raised his rifle to his shoulder, Bey led the way into the tomb. Sighing against the thick fabric of his sash, his scimitar glinted redly in the torchlight as they followed the eldritch blue glow. Careful to keep a sensible distance between them and their quarry, Ardeth drew a lump of chalk from his belt and marked a cross on the nearest crumbling wall. Uthman looked momentarily puzzled, then his brow cleared with comprehension – it was easy to get lost in large tombs. The chalk _scritched_ suddenly, causing the Med-Jai to freeze, listening intently for signs they had been heard. 

Eyes glistening with reflected torchlight, Ardeth cocked his head, then resumed walking, beckoning to his scout. For long minutes, the only sound was the almost inaudible pad of tough desert boots on the soft, powdery white sand. The walls bore formerly magnificent carved relief panels, the rich gold accents stripped by human greed. Pausing at a foot high cartouche, Uthman touched a finger to the smashed hieroglyphs. Great sections of painted frieze were similarly defaced, scratched away by purposeful hands centuries ago. A low, breathy moaning filled the wide corridor, akin to a tortured voice, but the Bedouin paid it no attention. The wind spoke in many tongues. 

The corridor took a left turn, then a right, then three more lefts, and finally opened out into the central burial chamber. Illuminated from within by the strange light, the hue now shifting between lilac and silvery blue, the chamber was clearly occupied. The light fluctuated, strobing beams pushing against the surrounding darkness. Dropping to one knee, Ardeth thrust the burning torch into the sand gathered inside a shallow niche in the wall. Placing a finger to his lips, he concealed himself behind a wide pillar carved with a geometric design and motioned for Uthman to take up position behind another. In a blur of black cloth, the young man obeyed, peering out from behind his rifle.

First checking he was hidden in the pillar's shadow, Ardeth peeked around into the large, low-roofed burial chamber. As with every other frieze in the building, the walls were marred by ugly gouges and scrapings, certain hieroglyphs obliterated. In a sorry state of disrepair from centuries of plundering and the corrosive migration of sand, the sarcophagus lay at a drunken angle on its plinth, bathed in the lavender glow captured in the hooded woman's hand. As the Med-Jai watched, she sighed and lay her free hand on the time-smoothed lid, index finger tracing the almost invisible contours of glyphs at the head. 

"Ah, my faithful one – loyal even after so long." Her voice was low, suffused with mingled gratitude and sadness. She spoke in the Coptic tongue, the words dropping from her lips with ease. The dialect was so old that even Ardeth had difficulty translating. "And look how the ignorant reward you – they deface your resting place, steal your grave goods. May Osiris seat you at his left hand, Isetnofret."

She tossed the light sphere into the air, where it bobbed gently, putting Ardeth in mind of the ridiculous balloon contraption that had almost outflown Imhotep's tidal wave. It elongated, stretching and dividing like an organic cell until four tiny globes hung suspended in nothingness. They darted away to the corners of the room, their luminance increasing in intensity. Uthman ducked a little as they zoomed overhead, and clutched his rifle tighter, but to his credit did not make a single sound. 

Patting the sarcophagus with what seemed to be affection, the woman reached up and threw back her hood, the thick material rustling as it settled about her shoulders. Skin milk white, almost luminescent in the sorcerous light, her complexion and features were too delicate for Egyptian descent. Her nose lacked the aquiline profile typical to the desert peoples or the roundness of the city-dwelling Arabs. Large eyes balanced by a strong, mobile mouth, her face was oval with a slightly sharp chin. Parted down the centre, her hair was secured with two gold bindings, magpie blue black cascades framing her features. Despite her traditional garb, she was unmistakably European with her fair skin, light eyes and height. She was tall, easily outstripping the average five foot three inches native women reached. 

Studying her countenance, committing it to memory, Ardeth was struck by her apparent youth. She hardly seemed more than twenty-five years old, and had he not seen her power for himself, would have judged her vulnerable. If you did not look too closely at her eyes, she had the same gamine innocence as Evelyn O'Connell. Bey's black eyes narrowed and his hand crept to the leather-bound hilt of his scimitar. He did not need reminding how deceptive looks could be. 

A small sound in the darkness to his back, a scuffing of the sand, made him gaze around. A faint tangerine glow highlighting the juncture of the corridor proclaimed the location of the hidden torch, everything beyond that lost in impenetrable blackness. Across from him, Uthman's brows shot up questioningly, and he darted a nervous glance back into the darkness. Seeing nothing untoward, Ardeth gave a minimal shrug and turned back to watch the nameless woman.

"The Horn of Isis I seek," she chanted, again in the ancient tongue, her tone formal and ritualistic. "Bequeath unto me my birthright! Isis! Isis! Isis!"

Clapping her hands together, the sound echoing loudly, she pulled them apart, a thrumming cord of chartreuse green light arcing between her palms. Chased by the sudden increased luminance, the dark fled, scurrying back before the hissing, writhing brilliance. Wheeling on one heel, Ardeth flung himself around as the direction of the shadow cast by the pillar changed, leaving him exposed. Back colliding with the hard stone, heartbeat quickening, the breath left his lungs with a muffled grunt. Wedged in the space between the pillar and the dividing wall, taking advantage of his smaller size, Uthman looked to his master for instructions. 

Cheekbones sculpted pale julep from the sorcerous radiance, the woman's head snapped up as she spied the Med-Jai. Lips thinning into a line of annoyance, her eyes flashed gold and she threw up her hands, snuffing out the light slicing between them. 

"Med-Jai!" Her voice seemed to fill the cavernous burial chamber, taking on an uncanny resonance. "Hiding in the shadows while you eternally watch! Do not cross me! Khepri! Layla!"

A deep, rumbling growl emerged from the lightlessness to the Med-Jai's backs, causing them to start and whirl. Twin sets of slanting golden eyes appeared, unblinking in their terrible scrutiny.

"Allah protect us," Uthman whispered, voice strained. "Dybuk."

Tails lashing with lazy menace, two enormous feline creatures emerged from the dense blue blackness at the junction of the corridor. Tawny furred and solid muscled as hunting lionesses, they possessed the faintly cruel humanoid features of the Sphinx. Steel-taloned and dagger-toothed, they advanced, leaving dinner plate sized paw marks in the sand. Each bore the mark of Isis across their barrel chests. 

"Djinn," Ardeth corrected, snatching at his Browning and pulling the trigger.

The gun roared and spat streaking fire, echoed by the nearest djinn as the bullet ripped through its flesh. Uthman took aim and shot the second between the eyes, exclaiming with dismay when it failed to topple over and die. Gaping, he stared with bulging eyes as the ragged, oozing hole began to knit. Scrambling past the momentarily disorientated sphinx, Ardeth grabbed the young scout's sleeve and forcibly dragged him down the corridor. Hauling the lad to his feet when he stumbled, kicking up a spray of tomb dust, Bey ran full tilt. Risking a stolen glance back, he saw the pursuing djinn galloping on velvet pads, claws striking white sparks from the stonework. His heart sank as they gathered themselves to leap, bounding effortlessly along the walls and ceiling. Magical beings of a similar ilk to Imhotep's undead mummy warriors, the laws of gravity did not necessarily apply. 

Flinging out an arm, he let off a shot, unsurprised when it missed completely and pinged from the opposite wall. An icy rectangle of desert sky loomed ahead, dotted with winking stars. Sobbing for breath, the Med-Jai flew out of the tomb into the spectral purple grey desert night. Breath showing as curling white steam on the cold air, they raced in the direction of their makeshift camp and waiting horses. Clamping a hand onto Uthman's arm, Ardeth stopped dead, making the young man yelp.

"Wait!" he cried, poised motionless against the light-studded sky, staring back at the tomb.

Uthman's features crumpled as he unsuccessfully tried to bring under control his instinctive desire to flee. 

"Mawlana!" he exclaimed, voice rising. "The djinn!"

"No," Bey said slowly, with disbelief. He shook his head and brushed sand from his curling hair. "They are gone."

Eyes huge in his tanned face, Uthman peered back, expecting at any moment to find his throat ripped out by vengeful sphinx. The Tomb of Isetnofret stood brooding and utterly quiet, seemingly deserted. Moments ticked by and nothing changed. The Med-Jai stood alone, only the furrowed sand trail of their running feet indicating anything had taken place. Swallowing hard, the scout shouldered his rifle and looked to his master for answers, a sheen of perspiration clinging to his brow.

"She did not kill us," Ardeth stated wonderingly. "Again, she did not kill us. Why?"

*


	3. Antiquities & Curiosities

*

*

****

3 Days Later

Bowing so low his great belly touched his knees, Azim Fahrer shepherded the wealthy Canadian tourist out of his shop, snapping his fingers impatiently. The wiry boy he employed for heavy tasks scurried out of the back room, a lumpily packed bundle in his arms. Scolding the child, a vicious stream of Arabic curses, he beamed toothily at his customer.

"Achmed will come with you to your hotel, sir – strong as an ox, he is. Your lady wife will be pleased with your purchase, sir, no doubt! Salaam!"

Echoing the salutation, the customer, who had no idea his statuette was a mere twenty years old instead of a thousand, ducked under the beaded curtain and away into the fuzzy twilight. Rubbing at his ample stomach, a cat with a golden saucer of cream, he stroked the waxed moustache he affected and ambled over to the ornate metal box serving as a till. Drawing a theatrically large iron key from the folds of his shalwar kameeze, he opened it, the mechanism clunk-clicking, and counted in the money. He loved the feel of money in his hands, of the crisp or crinkled notes and shiny coins that jingled satisfyingly in his pocket. He loved the smell more.

Fastidiously tapping the notes into neat stacks, he locked the box and replaced the key on its chain at his waist. Tucking the box beneath his arm, he waddled towards the back room and the squat iron safe. Nobody but Azim knew the combination, he was so suspicious of his family and employees. The mahogany bead curtain rattled suddenly, strands dark against the turquoise gloom of late evening. 

"I'm closed! Come back tomorrow!" he called, first in Arabic, then in English for good measure. 

Jangling like dried bones, the curtain swayed back and forth, stilling as the breeze changed direction. Squinting through the gathering darkness, he could see nobody at the door. Feeling foolish, Azim shook his head irritably, wondering when the wind had picked up to such an extent. Cairo had baked like a mud brick beneath Ra's scorching gaze, the wind from the desert failing to penetrate the streets, súks and alleyways. Reaching the back room and his beloved safe, the antiques dealer shuffled around a truncated statue of Bast and threw back the threadbare green rug covering it. Huffing, he bent and twiddled the dial to the correct combination. The door swung open, hinges oiled to soundless perfection, and he placed in the day's takings. 

Closing the weighty door, making sure all three deadbolts shot into place, he spun the dial and replaced the rug. Thinking of a glass of steaming tea to soothe his patter-dried throat, he sidled back around the headless representation of Bast to the door. Pulling it shut behind him, he selected another key from his jangling chain and locked it, rattling the handle to make sure it was secure. Fahrer had reached the scratched teak table where he conducted business, frowning as he spotted a fresh dent in the scrolled leg, when he realised he could not hear the subtle woody percussion of the bead curtain. Looking up, he saw that the outer door to the shop was closed and barred from within. 

Fear welling slowly in his throat, he slid around the edge of the table, surprisingly quietly for a man of his girth. Two Med-Jai warriors had visited him earlier in the day, almost indistinguishable from each other in black, sun-seamed faces dotted with glyph tattoos. After the incident with the terrifying white woman, he had shut up shop and hurried off to see his brother in Luxor for a week. When he returned, he had found the Med-Jai waiting for him. A coward to the core, he had told them everything he knew. Impassively, they had absorbed his frantic babble. The elder of the pair, his beard streaked with grey, had asked the questions, while the younger man toyed nonchalantly with his scimitar. 

Telling himself the Med-Jai were not in the habit of making people disappear, he peered around the dimly lit shop interior. 

"Achmed?" he called, wincing as his voice quavered. "Is that you, boy?"

Lit only where the gentle luminance of bell-domed oil lamps reached, great sections of the shop were lost in pools of shadow. Hugging the edge of the table, Azim strained his eyes, cursing under his breath as his fez slipped down over his forehead. He could not see anyone. The silence was absolute. He could even hear his heart fluttering, rapid and frightened like the caged finches sold in the súk.

"If that's you, I'll whip you for frightening me like that! Think of my old heart!"

Gingerly stepping away from the imagined sanctuary of the table, he tiptoed into the centre of the room. Heart pounding loud in his ears, he spotted a huddled figure in the corner of the room. Fear transmuting into indignant fury, he stomped over.

"ACHMED!" he screeched, pressing his palm to his chest. "I'll thrash you to within an inch of your miserable life!!"

Reaching down, his hand encountered a white cotton drape covering a section of a temple pillar. Angled shadows had made it appear like a crouching child. Throwing the drape down, he stamped on it and cursed with relief. Primal instinct running insect feet over the nape of his neck, he turned around and looked up, then up again. Something black towered over him. Hands flying up protectively before his face, mouth a stricken black square, Azim Fahrer drew breath for a scream that was not given opportunity to pass his lips. 

*


	4. Will Of The Goddess

*

Gratefully, with a nod of thanks, Ardeth Bey accepted a glass of hot tea from a wizened elderly woman. The hot, strong brew was red brown in colour, taken without milk and as much sugar as the drinker desired. Looping a finger through the metal handle, he settled back on a low cushioned stool before the fire and listened to the sounds of the encampment around him. After the incessant noise of Cairo, it was a welcome relief to listen to the night wind, the occasional murmur of conversation or laughter from nearby tents and the soothing crackle of the fire. 

Arranged in loose circles, each containing a small fire at the centre, the Med-Jai camp sprawled across a plateau a short distance from an all-important oasis. The tents were of simple but sturdy design, the canvas made from woven camel hair and vegetable fibres, dyed black to reflect the heat. Descended from the holy warriors who guarded the pharaoh, who was himself the living embodiment of Horus, the Med-Jai had retained their Egyptian bloodline. Finer featured than other Bedouin tribes, they possessed the aquiline profiles, high cheekbones and dusky skin of their ancestors. Their true numbers remained a mystery to outsiders and often the most anyone saw of them was groups as small as two or three. Not many knew there were twelve Med-Jai tribes.

Bey smiled slightly as the irritable deep bray of a camel came from the darkness, accompanied by a vehement curse in an unbroken boy's voice. An indignant yelp followed seconds later as the boy's father cuffed him about the head for swearing in front of his sisters. 

"You look weary, sayadi," the old woman creaked, stooping to peer at him with rheumy eyes. "An early night would benefit you. Your mother, Allah rest her, would have something to say could she see you. You are no use if you are so tired you can barely sit on your horse."

Ardeth drained his glass and reflected that grown men were reluctant to address him so frankly. He frowned and lifted his chin to regard her sternly. Unperturbed, she looked back at him, leaning on her elaborately carved stick. Laughing inwardly, he dipped his head in mock defeat.

"And you would be right, Aunt," he said gravely, using a respectful term of address for his late mother's dearest friend. 

"Well," the old lady grumbled, throwing the dregs from the teapot onto the fire. "Nobody else sees fit to tell you."

"Everyone else pays heed to my authority, Aziza," Ardeth reminded gently, rising to his feet to place an affectionate kiss on her wrinkled brow.

She waved a gnarled hand dismissively and clicked her tongue against her teeth, but softened enough to pat his bearded cheek.

"I remember you as a squalling baby," she countered. "Ay! And here you are, grown into a fine man, still bribing me with kisses like you did as a child! You should have a wife for your kisses, sayadi, then perhaps you would not sit late around the fire, brooding."

"Aziza," Ardeth began warningly. 

"I only say what your mother would think," she stated, uncowed. "A man needs family, heirs, a son to take his place when he is old. See, your brother has two fine sons."

"And he is an excellent father," Bey agreed. "And I a dutiful uncle – my family will not be without heirs. But with respect, my brother does not lead the Med-Jai… Goodnight, Aunt."

Shaking her head as she watched him stalk away towards his tent, Aziza pressed a hand to the small of her back, wincing as her arthritic bones protested. The cold seemed to seep in and stay of late. He would forget his anger with the rising sun over the curve of the dunes. Straightening, she glanced up into the starry dome of peacock blue sky as she had done every night for as long as she could recall. Blinking as she spotted a small, unusually isolated dust storm on the crest of a nearby dune, she muttered to herself and hobbled away to the warmth of her bed. The twister moved with purpose, against the prevailing direction of the wind, and abruptly vanished.

*

Shedding his djellaba, Ardeth sat on his low, comfortably padded pallet and pulled off his boots, emptying out the tiny quantity of sand that managed to find its way in during the day. Though able to sleep just about anywhere in the most adverse conditions, a knack acquired by all Med-Jai at an early age, his own bed was a welcome luxury. Stripping down to his pants, he methodically washed in cool water from a stopped pitcher before changing into a loose tan coloured robe. Placing his Browning beneath the gold-tasselled cushion pillow and his scimitar within easy reach, he knelt on the prayer mat at the far end of the tent, facing Mecca.

"What makes you so sure He's listening?" a female voice asked close by his ear, so close he could feel the warm tickle of breath.

Taken completely unawares, Bey jumped, diving to one side to grab his scimitar. Rolling once, he was up and armed in a moment, elbow coming back to wind his uninvited visitor. Swung off balance when the defensive move met empty air, he staggered. Instantly regaining his equilibrium, blade poised before him, he looked around. She was not immediately before him, as her voice had suggested, but stood by the tent flap. Green eyes jewel bright and amused above a gauzy, silver-threaded royal purple hijab, a gold and ebony Isis knot at her throat, she had no need to introduce herself. Regarding him with mock severity, she wagged a finger reproachfully.

"Is that any way to greet a guest, sayadi?" she asked, again speaking faultless Arabic. "Or do you prefer 'Mawlana', as is traditional?"

"I prefer visitors to announce themselves, lady," Ardeth replied carefully, pointedly not lowering his scimitar.

She chuckled softly, as she had done in the Cairo alleyway, voice a rich contralto that had more ethereal resonance than was entirely natural. As he looked at her, Bey was obliged to blink several times as her image shifted, alternating between supernatural clarity of hue and an almost imperceptible watercolour hazing. The functional, austere Bedouin black was replaced by aubergine silk palazzo pants, bound mid way down her calf to accentuate slender ankles. Her feet were bare, dusted with the merest sheen of sand. Fringed with tiny gold disks that jingled quietly as she breathed, her bodice left her pale midriff bare save for a cabochon emerald at her navel. Over this, she wore a sheer, filmy robe that matched her veil, shimmering with fine spider-silk silver. Too real, and yet seeming narcotically illusory, her presence filled the tent with an almost tangible power.

"Indeed, forgive my rudeness, but I am not fond of being shot at." She quirked an eyebrow towards his scimitar. "Or slashed to pieces… Put down your weapon, Med-Jai – it would not save you if I decided to kill you. And I would rather not have to bend or shatter the thing, the workmanship is exquisite."

The scimitar blade did not move. Ignoring the developing ache in his arm caused by holding the heavy weapon at arm's length for so long, Ardeth covered his surprise. She had made no lengthy preamble, invoking dead gods or ancient prophecies, nor had she threatened a slow, agonising death for interfering in her plans. As she spoke, he had detected the slight accent to her Arabic that pointed to English as her first language. 

"Who are you?" he demanded evenly, lowering the scimitar to his side, but keeping it ready. "And why do you seek relics from the City of the Dead?"

Her head tipped and she regarded him for long moments, a thoughtful moue dimpling her lips behind her veil. She spread her hands expressively and gave an elegant shrug, sending blue ripples travelling through her unbound jet hair.

"I am of and from the goddess," she stated. "I am she, and she is my power. The 'relics' have always belonged to Isis."

Ardeth frowned at the cryptic response, dark eyes skipping to the tent flap as he estimated how long it would take the camp guards to arrive if he bellowed for assistance. He was beginning to feel somewhat intoxicated, as if he had smoked the strong, deadly sweet opium sold for use in water pipes. A strangely pleasurable tingling had begun in his extremities and was steadily moving through his limbs. 

"They would not make it in time, sayadi," she murmured, with a sudden sun-flash of her eyes. "You seem oddly convinced I'm here to kill you… amusing as it is that you think yourself worth the bother. I come to ask you to stop interfering. My business doesn't concern the Med-Jai – everything I search for is mine by divine right. I don't plan to wake Imhotep, nor summon any other cursed creature. Leave me and mine be."

She took several steps forward, bare feet soundless on the thick, ornately patterned rug that served as a groundsheet in Bedouin tents. Kissing with faint metallic chimes, the minute gold disks on her clothing winked in the lamp light, creating a shivering border of shadow against her creamy skin.

"We won't become enemies by my hand, in fact, I would rather part as friends."

Ardeth felt his throat tighten, resisting the burgeoning, rapidly increasing need to touch her and run his fingers through her midnight hair. He could almost feel her in his arms. Telling himself he was the victim of an enchantment, he took a step back, mindful of his Browning beneath his pillow. An incalculable, primeval female force radiated from her and when she gave a brief, enigmatic smile, his self-control wavered.

"You will not bewitch me," he warned, though to his own ears it sounded painfully like a feeble protest.

She laughed, but her eyes darkened to the glassy green of turbulent Nile waters. For the first time, genuine anger showed in her expression, making the air thrum like the inclement sky before a desert storm. As she stepped closer, Bey caught a subtle whiff of perfumed skin, of blended floral oils not used for millennia. 

"If I wanted you, arrogant man," she breathed, chin lifting so their eyes met. "You would be at my feet begging to be allowed to kiss the ground I walk on."

For an instant that stretched out like a lyre string held in tension, liable to snap without warning, she imprisoned his gaze. He was unable to look away. Raised by a strict patriarchy, he had not encountered her like. Hair and robes stirring in an unfelt wind, opal pale features sculpted by lamp shadow, she took a step back and deigned to release him.

"Leave me and mine be, Med-Jai – this is your only warning."

Shattering into motes of burning emerald light, she dematerialised, leaving a lingering note of spicy fragrance. Ardeth sat heavily on the side of his pallet bed, realising he had been holding his breath. Letting it out in a long, noisy exhalation, he refilled his lungs and contemplated ordering his people to break camp. He decided against it, reasoning she could find them again with little difficulty. In his lifetime, nobody had ever found a Med-Jai encampment without assistance.

_I think I preferred dealing with the Creature, _ he decided ruefully. _At least I knew I was supposed to fight, and how. With her, the white lady, I am not so sure…_

*


	5. Responsibility Of The Med-Jai

*

*

****

Sunrise, The Next Morning

Waking with a jolt, Ardeth sat bolt upright, an action he instantly regretted. Bringing a hand up to his throbbing head, he winced and closed his eyes in a fruitless attempt to ease the splintered pounding inside his skull. 

"God be merciful," he muttered, reasoning he was suffering from what Rick O'Connell would probably call 'the mother of all hangovers'. 

Cracks of tepid sunlight filtered through the tent flap, the stillness of the encampment telling him it was barely daybreak. Kneading the bridge of his nose, the Med-Jai commander clambered to his feet and cursed as the world tipped at a crazy angle. Splashing cold water onto his face from the half-full pitcher, he squinted through water-beaded eyelashes at something shining on the woolly rug. Bending, he picked it up between thumb and forefinger. It was a tiny gold disk, no thicker than paper. Groaning inwardly as he realised the visitation by the white lady, a title he now automatically assigned the inscrutable woman, had not been a dream, he shuffled to the tent flap. 

He had slept through the night, although he could not recall lying down. His last cognizant thought had been to wake his lieutenants, increase security and rouse the Elders. Warily, he opened the tent flap and peered out into the cool early morning. Tranquil against the steadily brightening carmine-streaked sunrise, the camp was beginning to stir. Here and there, flaps opened and sleepy occupants emerged, stretching, yawning and thinking of breakfast. No scene of carnage greeted him, and he realised he had not really been expecting such a thing. Stumping back inside his tent, he set about dressing, finally pulling on his boots. Some minutes later, the impatient snort and whiney of horses caught his attention. Ducking beneath the flap, fastening his bandoleers as he did so, he saw a group of three coal black stallions cantering through the encampment.

"Mawlana!" the nearest rider called, pulling his kuffiyeh away from his face. "News from Cairo!"

Ardeth waited for the riders to approach, noting the sweaty glisten of the stallions' coats. It seemed they had ridden hard throughout the night. Catching hold of the leading horse's bridle as the rider pulled it up, Bey patted the panting animal's muzzle soothingly, calling for water.

"What news, my friends?" he asked, stepping aside to allow through hurrying boys bearing buckets of water for the exhausted mounts. 

Jumping down from horseback, the leader of the scout band touched his brow in greeting. Desert dusty, face seamed with sweat cemented sand, he appeared concerned.

"Azim Fahrer, the antiques dealer, is dead," he reported. "He was found last night by the servant boy he employs… he was covered in hundreds of asp bites, but though the shop was locked, not a single snake was found. His tongue was also removed."

Ardeth absorbed the information wordlessly, expression darkening. Smelling the smoky tang of newly lit wood fires as wives and daughters began their daily chores, he swallowed a sudden wave of nausea. Resolving to visit Aziza and ask for one of her famous herbal remedies, he ignored the plaintive complaint of his body and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"His loose tongue," he hypothesised sombrely. "Tell me, have you spoken with the boy?"

"Yes, and that's why we came so quickly," the other man nodded. "It seems there was more than one white woman searching for relics of Isis – the boy says there was a visitor to the shop, an English lady by the name of Rhiannon Ward…"

The scout leader paused and grimaced regretfully, exchanging glances with his fellow riders. Through their travel weariness, a certain unease was evident in the way their hands unconsciously rested near their scimitar hilts.

"Yes?" Bey prompted.

"We traced her to her hotel, Mawlana – the Royal Ibis. We're not sure how, but she has the Horn of Isis. It was described on a customs inventory with other insignificant items, but not named… she left for England last night, and this morning the staff attending her suite were found dead from asp bites."

Feeling an icy knot form in his stomach, Ardeth sighed resignedly. The Horn of Isis was a fabled magical talisman rumoured to contain the essence of the goddess. Supposedly a solid platinum cow's horn engraved with spelled hieroglyphs that required an occult Rosetta Stone to release the powers contained within, it had never been seen.

"This Miss Ward, she is an archaeologist, an academic?"

"We think so. According to the hotel manager, she is a 'frighteningly clever woman' who had all the trappings that go with tomb raiding… she could have explored the Tomb of Isetnofret before we set guards on it, Mawlana. She has been in Egypt for over two months."

Gritting his teeth at the implications, realising the Med-Jai had failed in their holy duty to keep magical relics out of ignorant or misguided hands, Ardeth schooled his features into a neutral mask. The Tomb of Isetnofret was often visited by curious foreigners who bounced uncomfortably atop ill-tempered camels like sacks of grain. To his knowledge, it had never contained anything magical, but as with all things, mistakes were sometimes made. 

"Miss Ward has acquired a dangerous 'museum piece'… we must retrieve the Horn before others come looking for it," he stated. 

"Like the white lady of Isis," the scout leader observed, somewhat unnecessarily. "Allah protect this archaeologist, or she may end up like Fahrer."

Eyes dark and unreadable, Bey turned to regard the horizon, which already shimmered with the days growing heat. Cairo was a day's ride away and England further still, each hour lost increasingly the likelihood of pursuit.

"The safety of this woman is the least of our concerns if the legends about the Horn are true," he said softly. "In the wrong hands, it could empower to the level of the Creature."

Without comment, the Med-Jai broke company and scattered, black shadows against the harsh sunlight. Re-entering his tent, Ardeth scooped up his scimitar and thrust it through his sash, searching through a brown leather folder filled with documents written in sprawling Arabic. Finding travel permits and a fake passport, he tucked them securely away and left, anticipating his forthcoming trip to England would be as eventful as the last.

*

****

That's all for now. Hang about for the sequel.

The Duchess xxxGRRR!


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